Arisen Aching
by theconsultingtardisbananaangel
Summary: Almost a year has elapsed since the ill-fated Third Trials of Heaven and Hell, and nobody has realized how badly dysfunction has settled upon them until a misunderstanding arises. Then, one of three falls into peril and they all must face what they've been ignoring for so long and heal their broken family.
1. Prologue: Shattering the Glass

**Author's note: This is a bad idea. Starting ****_yet another_**** in-progress fic with somewhere between seven and twelve already in flux. But alas, my muse has been overactive yet lacking in the follow-through. So what I did is typed out the whole damn thing, and didn't allow myself to post the first chapter 'til I was entirely finished. And let me tell you, that took more self-control than a dieter presented with a platter of their favorite variety of donuts. This is a rather short story, but I may decide to prolong it. We'll see.**

* * *

**Prologue**

Cas paged through the behemoth manual in front of him, looking for the page he had stopped translating at. His penchant for languages hadn't dissipated after he fell from heaven like his other angelic powers had. To make himself feel useful, he had been translating book after book to keep himself busy and therefore not a danger to himself. Dean went on the occasional hunt, sure, but after hearing what had happened to Sam, Garth had assigned a dozen hunters in the immediate and not-so-immediate area. Therefore anything that required pulling in the big guns (which was never) the Winchesters could be recovered by then.

Cas's newly acquired anxiety flared when the hunter went out, even for groceries. He worried that Dean would get badly injured and call out to Cas as a reflex and he wouldn't be able to hear or come in his human body.

And, though Dean wasn't fully aware of it, he was tired. Not the kind of hangover-tired where a quick nap can help, or even the sort of jet lag-tired where after a week or two he would recover. He was exhausted, running on fumes. For the past eight or nine years, he had been sprinting what should have been a marathon, once his problems grew beyond a simple nomadic life of a hunt here or there. Come to think of it, his life had been altered the weekend he retrieved Sam from Stanford...

The Life had always been taxing, but after that it became sort of stretched out, malformed. The pace quickened as the plot thickened and souls were sold and wars were fought. He went from a park ranger to Batman, in a way.

He was running out of momentum just before another uphill climb. But Sam's illness and Cas's... recovery had given him the chance he needed to slow down.

Eleven months had passed since the respective third trials of Hell and Heaven failed, and Sam was entirely healed. The duo went hunting several times a month now, and Cas would never, ever admit how severe his mental health still was: the nightmares, the hallucinations, the gaps in memory, the depression, and the awful, unbearable worry that suffocated him when the hunter(s) were hunting.

So he buried himself in the library, equipped with Microsoft Word, a scanner (for the diagrams, charts and drawings), and a printer he had made his way through roughly seven books that the Men of Letters had set aside because they were unable to be translated.

He became engrossed in his work, keeping odd hours, forgetting to eat, losing track of days. Sometimes he would go on for weeks without leaving the bunker. Dean and, later, Sam would urge him to come eat with them, and he did, every once in a while.

But the books didn't tiptoe around him like he was a land mine about to go off. The books didn't look at him with pity in their eyes. The books were not burdened with his up-keeping, so he stayed in the library for the most part.

Now, he was concentrated on translating a book in Germanic Ewe about local spirit-like things that were known to come after travelers at night. The lore dated back thousands of years, passed down through tribes in modern-day Ghana and written when the first German colonists arrived and turned the language into a written one with influences of their own language mixed in.

He was translating a particularly nasty snarl of phrases when Dean knocked softly on the door, and he was too engrossed to hear him. Dean hesitated, carefully observing the once-angel before approaching. Cas was pale, but not sallow, and he was thinner then he had been when his vessel was maintained by his presence alone. His hair was longer, not by much, but enough so that it fell in his face on occasion, making him brush it back with his hand regularly, even when it was still neat, the habit ingrained in his muscles. His lips were chapped, and when he concentrated, his tongue stuck out slightly.

Now, he was sitting cross-legged on a leather wing-backed chair, hunched over his book with notebook open next to it. He startled violently when Dean began to speak.

"Cas?" Cas's head snapped up, blue eyes wide and alarmed, and his knife exposed before he even processed who it was.

"Oh. Dean," Cas said in recognition, regarding the knife in his hand with a sort of dissociative amusement.

"I see your reflexes are still sharp," Dean said seeing the perfect segue into his idea.

"I guess so," Cas remarked blankly, stretching, his back arched and arms extended upwards, reminding Dean of a cat.

Dean ran his tongue along the edges of his teeth, suddenly very self-conscious. Cas could bring home the gold medal for any and all competitions for 'piercing blue gaze' with no contest. He walked around to the back of the enormous desk, boat-like in the sea of library. He leaned against its surface, near Cas yet careful. Cas was so withdrawn sometimes that physical proximity sometimes alarmed him to the point of panic attacks, hysterics, or, at worst, a bipolar mania.

But Cas seemed to be in his own head today, eyes aware and calm as he waited for Dean to speak. _He needs a shave_, Dean thought, briefly forgetting his mission, instead opting to assess his surrogate brother's appearance and health. He was surprised at the lack of dark circles beneath his placid blue eyes; the first few months after he fell he had needed sleeping pills to aid in slumber due to his plaguing nightmares.

"You been taking care of yourself," Dean muttered, somewhere in between an inquiry and an observation.

"I seem to have retained... certain abilities along with my translating skills, one of them being that this body progresses slowly. I often forgo food for several days to no ill affect, the same with water, bathroom breaks, and sleep," Cas explained. "My muscles have not deteriorated and my nightmares are less often."

His voice was careful and calculated, that of a weathered physician evading the prying questions of an anxious family.

"Okay," Dean said eventually. "How you doing, you know, otherwise?"

Cas squinted at him, head turned.

"I mean, you okay? Mentally?" Dean realized with a pang of guilt that he hadn't been making sure Cas was getting better as often as he should have.

"My brain functions normally-"

"Nightmares, panic attacks, amnesia?" Dean interrupted, trying to show Cas what sort of mental-ness he meant.

Cas sat quietly for a few minutes, trying to grasp Dean's meaning and gathering answers he would be pleased with.

"I am much improved," he said, measured and careful. He wasn't on the brink of a mental breakdown all the time now, it was only about half the time.

"My nightmares have lessened in number." He was sleeping less, but the ratio of haunted dreams versus peaceful sleep remained nearly unchanged.

"I seem to be coming to terms with my anxiety." No, he simply had to man up and face it more as the Winchester brothers picked up the pace once again. And by face it, that meant he used negative coping methods like alcohol and overworking himself.

Dean regarded him carefully, but Cas's face retained its impassive gaze, no signs of any lies.

"Sam and I were talking."

Cas's heart plummeted. He had been waiting for this conversation, dreading it, hoping to prolong it as long as possible. He was a burden, heavy baggage, a whiny, needy kid in a grown-up world. He blinked rapidly, looking away, fighting the tightening in his throat that signaled coming tears.

"I'll go," he said, voice shaking, trying to sound brave. He loved the Winchesters dearly, but he was now an added weight rather than an auxiliary force. His mind ran through the few belongings he had: battered old coat, kept for the sake of nostalgia, or some twisted nostalgic parody. One of Dean's shirts that he had worn his first few human days and 'forgotten' to return. The minimal clothing he had reluctantly ordered online. His basic self-defense items, a couple of small guns and knives. His toothbrush, comb, razor, and towel. He would have to borrow one of the brothers' duffle bags to put the things in- no, borrowing meant an intent to return...

"You will?" Dean's face lit up as Cas was beginning to hyperventilate at the thought of his imminent abandonment. "Awesome! Sam said you would want to stick around a while longer, but I said you're more than ready. Get your stuff packed for departure tomorrow morning." Dean clapped his shoulder, but he didn't know his own strength and Cas lost his balance on the chair for a split second.

"Looking forward to it!" Dean called behind him as he left Cas alone to collect his thoughts in the suddenly cold library.

Cas shakily unfolded his legs, stunned and dizzy. It was one thing to be disowned, as it were, and entirely another to be met with such...eagerness from Dean.

He cradled his head in his hands, his face buried in his palms, as he began to sob silently.

_You should have made yourself useful. You shouldn't have been contented to lurk in the Winchesters' home. You're such a huge burden to them; just look at Dean's excitement at your leaving. See how badly he wants you gone? He hates having you here, hates babysitting the thing that betrayed him. You have no use as a human, and he's finally kicking you out. You're a disappointment adding more to his burden. He never liked you, only put up with you 'cause you had powers. You should be sniveling at his feet, begging for forgiveness at your dependence, weighing them down, eating their food and taking up residence in their dwelling. You deserve a long life of homelessness, hunger, despair, and ennui. You're going to rot on the streets as the Winchester brothers rejoice._

The shouting in his head got louder and louder, reaching such a volume that Cas stood up abruptly, hands clamped over his ears, not caring as, in his frenzy, he knocked over the chair and displaced the books. He ran blindly to his bedroom, which was not really his in the traditional way, only a place that he slept in. He collapsed on the bed, curling into a small ball and rocking violently as the assault rambled on in his head.

_Remember when Dean was your friend? When he loved you like a brother? When he looked in your eyes and called you family? Now you're nothing but an ugly pet goldfish, flushed away when it ceases to serve a purpose._

"Stop," he moaned as his breathing became difficult. Blood roared in his ears, driving the voices louder and louder.

_You betrayed him. You betrayed his trust, after he had been nothing less than merciful towards you. You owe him everything and this is how you repay that debt? By loitering in his life like a tumor? Time to be cut away._

The voices engulfed him as he fell onto the floor, barely noting the change. He waited for the tides to ebb away, waves of shrieking torment clouding his awareness.

_Remember, Castiel, when you were the strong one?_

* * *

Eventually, Cas fell asleep.

He dreamt of orange lights streaking across the sky, blood covering his hands, trees thundering to the ground, their weight shuddering as they hit the frozen earth, drawn-out and resonating.


	2. Chapter Two: Abrasions

**Author's note: I know I should be working on my other stories, but... I have so much anxiety about school starting again that I can't even type anything coherent, so here.**

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**Chapter Two: Abrasions**

Dean wakes up in the morning feeling hopeful, almost. Perhaps it is not hope in the traditional sense of the word, but instead simply a notion that changes are on the horizon and the wish that those changes will be positive.

The bed is cold save for the area immediately surrounding his body; summer is languidly approaching but underground, the temperature remains stable year-round.

Dean sits up, yawning, and swings his feet around to the side of the bed. He rises, cracking the joints which have settled in the night, briefly wondering how he ended up closer to forty than thirty years of age before dressing himself in a soft, weathered grey henley shirt and a pair of thick, sturdy jeans. He closes the dresser before remembering that he needs socks. His alarm was set for six thirty; it is six thirty three as he packs his duffle bag with practiced motions, unable to prepare slowly after a life of darting around on little notice.

He casts one more look around his bedroom before leaving, a habit that he has formed upon settling here. He knows that any departure could be his last, and that this little illusion of home may be the final parting between man and his living space, either one liable to fall prey to destruction in the other's absence. He wonders if they have any milk left in the refrigerator.

Something seems oddly still about the morning, as if it has frozen and Dean is the only one still moving. It has an underwater quality about it: colorful and slow and silent. He walks to kitchen, footfalls quiet upon the hall floor.

Sam sits quietly in the kitchen, a plate scattered with crumbs in front of him as he sips his coffee, lost in thought. He glances at Dean as he enters, and nods in acknowledgement of his brother's prescience.

A clattering of silverware breaks the silence as Dean opens the utensil drawer. The spell is broken and Sam speaks.

"Where's Cas?"

"Where do you think?" Dean scoffs, but his brother knows him well enough to hear the fondness.

"Library?" Sam guesses. Dean shrugs, his back turned away from the younger Winchester as he prepares his breakfast. After a moment of consideration he makes a plate for Cas, too, thinking that the fallen angel probably dozed off in one of those old books.

Again.

Despite his numerous, no, endless attempts to draw Cas outside, he had been forced to watch as his best friend withdraws deeper into his shell of misery, slipping further and further from the brothers as time passes.

"I'm gonna go get him," Dean tells Sam, needlessly. Sam holds his tongue, still disapproving of the reckless manner in which Dean plans to rip Cas back into the real world.

* * *

Dean wanders the corridors of the library, searching the rows and rows of knowledge for Cas. It feels empty, unwelcoming, in here alone, the high ceiling casting long shadows from the book shelves.

Cas is nowhere to be found.

"Cas, buddy? You here?" Dean asks, voice raised. The library remains silent. Dean walks up and down the aisles once more, just to be sure. It's still empty. He sighs, wondering where else Cas could have gone. If he is not in his bedroom, then it's anyone's guess.

_Maybe I should have made sure he was getting packed yesterday. He seemed a little... distressed for some reason._

Dean isn't in a huge rush as he walks to Cas's room, it is still early and Cas probably has to shower and shave first. The door to Cas's bedroom looks like all the other doors, only somehow it sends a foreboding chill over Dean as he approaches it.

"Cas, man, are you in there?" Dean asks softly, gently knocking on the heavy door. There is no reply, and he only hesitates a split second before trying the knob. It's unlocked, and Dean opens it slowly, noting that the lights are still on.

Then, he notices Cas lying on the floor, passed out from the looks of it._ Oh, ew, that's gross_, he thinks, recoiling, as he takes in the sight of vomit near Cas's head. Thankfully, the prostrate ex-angel's head isn't lying in the pool of the foul stuff. Dean sighs and walks towards him, wondering how he got sidled up with an irresponsible, depressed teenager.

"Wake up, man," Dean prods gently. Cas doesn't even stir. Dean pokes at him with his foot, not hard enough to be a kick. It moves Cas's rib cage and he grunts, moving his head into the crook of his elbow, and promptly falls asleep again. Dean sighs, fighting the urge to lash out.

"Cas, you're a grown-ass man, quit pouting and get up. We have got to head out sooner rather than later, and Sam and I are already ready, so if you get up, we can go."

Cas rotates his head so that Dean can see one red-rimmed blue eye staring at him.

"Go and get your ass in the shower so you don't smell like a sick ward," Dean orders. Cas just blinks at him, dumbfoundedly.

"Dude, you're going to be ridin' in my car 'til we get to Virginia, so you had better-"

"Virginia?" Cas interrupts.

"You know... the state," Dean says, pausing to squint at Cas. "You going to tell me what happened last night?"

"Why Virginia?" Cas seems really, really set on the Virginia topic for some reason. Dean raises an eyebrow.

"Because that's where this djinn is prowling," he explains in an unintentionally condescending tone.

"Djinn," Cas repeats dumbly.

"Yeah. You've heard of them, right?" Dean sits on the edge of Cas's bed, watching the ex-angel struggle to right himself and trying not to think about the vomit.

"Yes, Dean," Cas says, a touch impatiently, as if Dean is the one acting ridiculous. Dean rolls his eyes while those blue ones aren't looking and clenches his teeth, wondering when his encounters with Cas had gotten so... prickly, so caustic...

"Need a hand, buddy?" Dean asks, smirking, as Cas flops down again, giving up. But when he extends his hand to help him, Cas pointedly doesn't take it, choosing to steady himself on the foot of the bed instead. He shoots Dean a small glare. Swaying, he collapses backwards onto the bed, clutching his head, feeling dizzy.

"'M dizzy," Cas states with an air of detached amusement. "Still not used to that."

Dean bites his lower lip. Any lingering irritation he had felt for Cas is replaced with a rush of sympathy. Cas's used-to-be-an-angel state is constantly there, reminding him that he's a human, but sometimes Dean forgets exactly how much of a descent Cas has made. It's almost impossible to associate this weak, depressed human with the stately, overwhelming being he had encountered first in that old barn.

"Cas..." Dean mutters, feeling squeamish and awkward, unsure of what to say.

"I forgot to pack," Cas blurts suddenly, staring at his hands as if they are a particularly compelling piece of foreign art.

"That's okay, man, I'll pack for you. Go take a shower. You all right to stand up?" Cas nods slightly, not making eye contact. He trembles slightly and walks to the bathroom. As he's closing the door, he hesitates, and Dean finally catches his eye. He nods slightly, encouraging Cas to go on. He flickers his tongue out over his bottom lip nervously, and begins to talk.

"So... The gin in Virdjin- the djinn in Virginia," he corrects, his cheeks flooding with a pink tint from embarrassment but Dean doesn't seem to notice. "You're... you and Sam are hunting it?"

"Yeah, Sam and me. And you." Dean gives him another odd look.

"I'm going hunting with you," Cas states, expression guarded. "That's what you meant by 'go'."

"Yeah..." Dean swallows, suddenly even more uncomfortable than he already had been.

"You're not..." Cas's eyes widen, the sudden comprehension in his face so obvious it is as if someone had turned on a light.

"Cas? What are you talking about? What else would I mean by 'go'?"

Cas doesn't move, doesn't indicate any sign of acknowledgement beyond a blink.

"Castiel? What did you think I meant?"

Dean glances at the mess on the floor, at the dark shadows under Cas's eyes. Cas gulps audibly at the use of his full name.

"Cas-"

"I thought you were evicting me," he blurts, and slams the bathroom door shut behind him, the click of the lock the loudest sound Dean can ever remember having heard.

And then he's left alone, forced to grapple with the sudden realization that _holy shit, I have pushed him away so much that he thinks I would just abandon him._ Guilt and shame rush into his bloodstream, hot and accusatory.

The sound of the shower snaps Dean out of his musings, and he sets off in search of something to clean Cas's floor with. In the kitchen, Sam watches him, confused.

Dean is appalled at himself, disgusted with what he has done.

Worst of all, he realizes that Cas was_ willing to go._


End file.
